“Be right back,” I said as I headed to the kitchen. I returned a moment later with a bottle of wine and a tray. I poured two glasses of wine and indicated the tray of thinly sliced melba toast and small dish of a pate-type spread.
“Help yourself,” I suggested as I handed her a glass of chilled white wine. I waited as she applied the paste to a piece of toast and tasted it.
“Sonny, this is delicious. What is it?” she asked as she made a face of approval.
“Tarama. Greek caviar, virgin olive oil, garlic, lemon and butter,” I replied with satisfaction.
“Summer said you were a good cook. Really wonderful,” she murmured between bites.
“When you’re ready, we’ll have dinner on the deck. It’s not very formal, but it’s a nice atmosphere.”
“Oh, I’m ready whenever you are. I’m starved!” she laughed
“Then, let’s eat,” I said offering her an arm to lead her to the outdoor table.
Dinner was several courses. I followed the tarama hors d’ oeuvres with an appetizer of crab and crayfish chowder, then a salad of summer fruits and melons. The main course was Chateaubriand, medium-rare, with a crapaudine sauce and roasted potatoes. Desert was a fresh strawberry shortcake with heavy whipped cream and almond slivers.
By the time we got around to coffee, Melanie was appropriately impressed. Our conversation was less stilted and more personal.
“Where on earth did you ever learn to cook like that? This southern pecan coffee is to die for.”
“When I was living alone, I was bored. I taught myself how to cook just to kill time,” I explained.
“I’ve been to a lot of restaurants that couldn’t come close to what you cooked tonight. You’re simply amazing, Sonny. Why aren’t you married?”
It was a question I was asked often over time. I didn’t have a ready answer.
“Oh, I don’t know…I guess I spend too much time trying to figure out what I want to do with my life,” I shrugged as I fiddled with the handle of my cup.
“That reminds me why I’m really here, Sonny,” she said leaning forward slightly. “Those sketches you’re working on of Summer. Are they good?” she asked.
“Good? Yeah, I suppose so,” I said with a sigh.
“You don’t sound too sure,” she frowned.
I leaned forward and braced my arms against the edge of the table. “Are you a good publisher, Mel?” I asked.
“Well, yes…in my humble opinion, I’m the best publisher in the south.”
“Then, you’re better than good. You’re the best you can be,” I said trying to make a point. “I’m a good artist, Mel, but ‘good’ isn’t ‘the best’. The sketches I have so far are good. They just aren’t the best I can be.”
She hesitated a moment as she considered my evaluation of my work.
“I’d like to see them, Sonny. I’d like to judge for myself.”
“Why?” I asked with suspicion.
“Well, for several reasons…let me see the sketches, and then, maybe we’ll talk business. Fair enough?”
I laid my napkin aside and pushed back my chair. I half bowed and mockingly swept my hand towards the patio door.
“After you. They’re in my room. I just hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
Mel followed me down the hall to my room. I swung the door wide and invited her in with an accompanying apology. “Sorry for the mess. I can cook, but I’m not a very good housekeeper,” I muttered.